


In Which Steve Rogers has Sex with all of the Avengers

by Cards_Slash



Category: Captain America (2011), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, no i don't think any of this really happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Natasha on the days that he's livid, just furious, about to burn up from the inside out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Steve Rogers has Sex with all of the Avengers

It's Natasha on the days that he's livid, just furious, about to burn up from the inside out. It comes out in other ways too, starting fights with Tony, breaking sandbags, ruthlessly pushing his body past its point of endurance but all of that takes hours-and-hours of effort. They never help, not really, just tamp down the anger until it's something almost manageable and he can make it through another day pretending that he wasn't about to explode with it.

Then there's Natasha with vice-tight thighs that lays him out on the sparring mat with sweat dripping off her face and soaking through her short-red-hair. Her lips are bright-as-blood and Steve doesn't even have air to speak when she presses her knees in against his arms and holds him down. Her fingers are tight in his hair, pulling to the point of pain and she tips her head and sometimes he just wants to fight, just wants to see how far he can push her before she gives in (maybe he doesn't, maybe he wants to think that she's never-ever going to give up). But sometimes, most times, especially when he's biting back venomous words and denting innocent walls, he grabs her by the back of the neck and pulls her down to kiss her. 

For his trouble she slaps him across the face, leaves his cheek stinging-red and embarrassed and his dick hard-as-hell. She's hot everywhere, all sleek lines and God the things he's thought about her in the midnight hours. She eases out of her clothes--glorious, naked--scarred and imperfect. He touches her, here-there and gets his hands slapped out of the way every time. It's her decision where he's allowed to touch, her decision to pin him down with her slight-slim body and sit on his face. He wasn't any good at this when they started--no frightened of it like she thought when she stroked his hair, but just ignorant of what to do, new to the whole thing. But he loved the smell of her, overwhelming so close to his nose and fisted his hair and rocked against his tongue until she came and then, if he did a good enough job, she'd take pity on him.

Then he could touch her, the length of her spine, the round curve of her hips, the perfect-fucking swell of her breasts. Once-or-twice (and only when he was angriest, the most volatile) she let him get his mouth on her breasts while she rode his dick. This time, it's enough when her hands pull his zipper down, reach into his pants and pull his dick out. She strokes him once-twice and fishes a condom out of his pocket (because he knew, like she knew, exactly what they were here for). When she drops down on him, it's fever-hot and he closes his eyes and tips his head back. His hands are digging new ruts into the floor and she's laughing at him--powerless, defenseless little him--as she works herself on him. 

When he can look again, she's already half-there, taking her time and he risks swiping a thumb over her clit to see if she's in the mood to let him and gets slapped across the face again. Sometimes he can't stand it, sometimes he thinks he'll break, thinks he'll shove her over and fuck her through the floor, damn the consequences and never think twice about how it was something he'd never even consider anywhere else. But right here, she pushes him until he's shaking with it (that anger, that uncontrollable thing he'd woken up from the ice with) and after, when she's broken him and he's gasping at it--coming down from an orgasm and something else he just can't define--she's there with sweet kisses against his face. Her fingernails are like claws and her body is curvy but not soft and he wraps both his arms around her because it feels like he's going to cry and she's just shushing him through it.

\--

Bruce is for the days he just wants to kiss, just wants to touch, just wants to lay around in the sentimental lethargy of cuddling. There's no better word for and while there are others that all but strangle themselves over the notion of anything so embarrassing as cuddling, Steve likes it. In the late afternoon when it's warm and the bed is very soft, Bruce is accommodating and cautious. It's an act of faith on his part, maybe, to know Steve's word is solid and sure, no surprises and no secret demands. All he wants is to feel the weight and nearness of another body, to brush their mouths together and taste coffee-and-late lunch. 

Bruce is not like any of the others, no smaller--not exactly--but stretched thin anyway. He's a genius in the most humble way, less afraid of himself now but still aware at every-single-second what terrible truth lays just under his skin. He's untouched, unmarked, unlike the rest of them and Steve likes to trace the lines of the life that Bruce lost. All of his scars are old-old and faded back into the tan of his skin. He smiles to himself, in between kisses and when Steve asks him what he's thinking he always says nothing. 

No nothing at all.

They lay like that, legs tangled together, bodies not quite touching anywhere else, Steve's hands over Bruce's clothes and trading kisses back-and-forth. It goes on for hours-and-hours, intermittent bouts of intensity before they lay there again, holding on and thinking about nothing at all. Sometimes Steve smiles and he doesn't know why so maybe he gets Bruce's half-grins that fall out of place and come right back. 

When Steve gets up to leave (finally, maybe, later-later-later on), Bruce watches him like he wants to know where Steve's going. If he thinks Steve's running away to find sex with someone less complicated, with less limitations, with no lingering worry about what they might awaken and who would get hurt if they did--he doesn't say anything. No, Bruce just lays there, laid out along the bed and smiling in a completely different way, humble-always-humble and yet clever in a way that Tony couldn't ever be. 

Steve always says, 'I'll see you tomorrow' and Bruce always wishes him a good night. The night after, Steve sleeps like a child--carefree and careless--and wakes up feeling like the young man his body still thinks he is.

\--

Thor is complicated, pulled in so many different directions, still unsure of the things that he wants out of his life. If he had a hundred more lifetimes (and he did) Thor couldn't have decided what he wanted, but for now, while he worked on it, he was good for meaningless sex. 

They rolled together in Thor's bed, monstrous as it was, with Steve shoving and pushing with every bit of his strength and Thor smiling at his attempts to move him. He was gentle like it came to him naturally, like for all the weight of his muscles and all the god-like power he commanded, he was only ever meant to be soft-and-sweet. His smile betrayed him, his light touches with broad calloused hands. Sex was just for fun, for sport, but Thor touched him everywhere, all across his chest, his arms, his wrists, his neck and face. He stroked his belly and around to his back, cupped a hand around in his ass and held him in place as he rocked against him, his mouth closed around Steve's left nipple like he expected to get milk from it. 

Sometimes, and all the time when they started, they got off like that, Steve shoving at Thor's shoulders and Thor holding him still and rubbing off against his body until they were both coming. Now and again, this far along, Thor asked to fuck him (never like that, never so bluntly, but in a obscure way that Steve had agreed to once without understanding and hadn't particularly regretted it). 

This time, Thor was pushing his slicked-up fingers into Steve with his mouth latched on to his favorite nipple while Steve pulled his hair and kept one leg around him and the other trying to get the leverage to roll them over. Thor would have let him be on top if he'd asked, probably would have let Steve fuck him if he ever wanted to try but he didn't. He just wants to fight back, wants to shove and kick and finally give in when he was all but drowning in the sensation of being smothered by Thor's larger body while he was fucked until he was raw. 

When Thor finishs with fingers he fumbles through a condom (he doesn't understand then, really) and then he's fucking into Steve with that crazy-soft smile of his. Steve wasn't what Thor wanted and that was just fine by him because Thor wasn't what he wanted (not forever, not in the ways that mattered) but they made good sport of it. Steve sucking momentary marks into Thor's skin and Thor touching-and-stroking and fucking him. 

Tony told him once that he'd never met a man that could get off on being fucked alone but Steve was willing to put even money on the fact that Tony had never met a man that could stand to be fucked by Thor until their choices were limited to come-or-die. That's what it felt like when Thor pounded the orgasm out of Steve's body and kept going. It was delicious and terrible and so much more sensation that anybody could deal with but Thor was all reassuring kisses and sure hands holding him down. 

When Thor came he muttered something Steve never understood and they rested together, sweaty and spent. Sometimes Steve rolled over and fell asleep because his legs were rubbery and his body was exhausted and sometimes he got up and left when he pieced back together enough of himself to move. 

Either way, Thor thanked him and Steve laughed when he said you're welcome and thank you too.

\--

Clint was for ridiculous sex. Steve laughed from the moment Clint let him into his room (or floor, really) in the tower until he left hours later. Clint wasn't ridiculous but he was an antidote to heavy feelings; like he had found a way to balance the truth of his life with laughter and wit. He wasn't a genius but he was smart-enough and more observant, less overtly lethal than the others. 

With Clint it was sharing a drink, shirtless, leaning back on a couch and watching football. Neither of them were any good at keeping track of who they were rooting for but they picked a side and cheered and shouted and complained. Clint knew a string of curse words that fit together oddly and Steve laughed sometimes at the amazing, unnecessary vulgarity of it. 

And Clint blushes, maybe Steve likes that about him, he blushes just a little when Steve laughes at curse words and his demands at the TV screen. He blushes when Steve set the bottle to the side and pulled him close to kiss him. Like every-single-time Clint was surprised why he was there or maybe he just liked playing it that way. 

It could have been that, feigned shocked when Steve got on his knees for him, pulled his pants open and down to mouth at the heated-hardening weight of his dick. Clint could stretch his body in a dozen different ways, always shifted, always gasped, always. He has beer-bottle cold hands when he touches Steve's cheek and his neck and down the back of his shirt to get at his shoulder. He curses-and-curses-and-curses while Steve sucks him off with catches of giggles and half-told jokes. 

When there was a terrible play he was shouting at the TV and then grinning at him sheepishly. Steve thought about telling him that he didn't care, really, one way or another if Clint was paying attention to him or not. One day he wanted to see how long he could suck on Clint's dick before the man gave up on trying to see everything around him at once and focused on just him--but then again, maybe he liked the thought that nothing could keep Clint from seeing.

'Oh shit,' Clint says when he's close, skin rosy with flush, hips bucking up against Steve's face in a way that's completely unself-conscious. Clint fists the couch, head back, and fucks against his face until his voice is a steady reed-thin stream of noise with no discernible vowels or consonants. When he comes he shoves Steve off and fists his own dick and after he's done making a mess of his day-off shirts, he collapses into the couch and laughs. 

Steve climbs up onto him, loves the lethargic spread of his body (wonders if this is what he looks like when Thor's done with him) and jerks off until he's adding his own come to the mess of Clint's shirts. Soon they'll have ruined them all, every single one of them and all Clint will have to wear is his work suit. That thought catches him below the ribs and he's laughing when he gets there, falling into Clint and kissing the joke into his mouth.

They lay in a post-fuck stupor while they finish the game and Clint offers to find something to eat that Steve always turns down. It's loud-talking agreements to do this again sometime and a wave when Steve walks away from Clint's door and neither of them thinks there's much of a reason to mention the semen stains on Clint's shirt or the dick and beer smell that Steve walks away with.

\--

Then there's Tony who is a disaster that Steve usually tries to avoid. Steve doesn't have as many hang-ups about Tony as Tony seems to have about him and for all that they can play nice together when the world's in danger, sex is different and it's nothing Steve wants to get caught up with whatever mess Tony's made of his own feelings.

But then it's Tony saying: 'So it's Natasha when you're angry, Bruce when you're lonely, Thor when you're naughty, and Clint when you're happy. What about me?'

Tony was blunt, brilliant and chaotic and rude. There were no secrets but simply things he hadn't figured out yet so when he says it to Steve, his eyes light up because all at once he knows he's right. Steve was never any good at hiding himself from anyone but it pisses him off that he's so transparent to such a careless person. 

Steve ignores him, ignores the problem, ignores it all with a remark about how Tony is nothing, that he's irrelevant. The others--they all know about each other--and it's meaningless. There's no possession, no jealousy, no betrayal. Every encounter is mutually agreeable and mutually beneficial and then there's Tony who can't share and never plays well with others, who has to be best and loudest and brightest in every situation. 

Months-and-months later, it's Tony again, all at once. Tony is just there, at his door, with cuts on his face and the weight of the whole universe on his shoulders. Steve hasn't learned much about Tony in the time they'd been living-and-fighting together that he hadn't learned in the first few hours of knowing the man, but now and again something surprises him. 

Tony lives-and-breathes defiance, lets it ooze out of his pores in doses equal to his entitlement, but now he's just standing there. He's furious, he's hurt, he's confused, he's every little thing that the great Tony Stark refuses to be, refuses to give into, and Steve just sighs when he sees him.

Everyone, sooner or later, had a bad day. 

Steve invites him in, thinks about making a pretense of beer and talking and then figures it's not worth wasting his carefully horded beer supply. Instead he strips Tony's jacket off him while he just stands there with his mouth closed and his shoulders slumped down. It's like, if he moved, if he said a word, he'd just collapse with it and Steve's careful to keep him from breaking apart while he strips him naked. 

"Fuck me," is what Tony says when he finally find words to say at all. He grabs Steve by the neck and pulls him in, both arms around his body and mouth crushed against him. There's a moment of disconnect there, some lingering objection about Howard's son before Steve's opening his mouth to let Tony drive his tongue inside. He moves them to the bed, drops Tony on it and strips out of his own clothes easily.

On the bed, Tony scratches and pulls and talks dirty in a bold way that does nothing to convince Steve that he's not close to breaking apart at all of the over-stressed seams. He does what he was asked (or told, really), fucks Tony without holding him down. He fucks him while Tony squirms. 

After the first orgasm, Tony breathes out, stretches without trying to pull away, content to let his body be used now that he's gotten what he came for. He traces the line of Steve's collarbone down to the groove between his muscles and sweeps it around to his left nipple and pressed the whole of his hand against the middle of his chest where the arc-reactor is buried in Tony's chest. 'God, you're fucking ridiculous,' Tony says. 

It's awe in his voice. He smiles then and everything-is-fine again. Steve has no fucking idea why Tony was at his door when he had friends that had sworn their love and loyalty to him long before Steve was even back among the living. He thinks it must be something he'll never see again, that raw-vulnerable edge in Tony, and it's all for the best because he can't make sense of Tony unless he's boiling with defiance.

'Now fuck me, come on,' Tony says to him, 'I know you want to, fuck me until I can't talk anymore.'

Steve laughs at that, starts rocking his hips again, 'I think you're over-estimating my abilities.'

And Tony laughs, head back, body shaking, he laughs and laughs and Steve fucks him until he's hiccupping little giggles and groaning with every thrust. 

Clint makes him laugh because he's genuinely funny, but Tony is dark and ridiculous humor--catching Steve right in the urge to protect and the urge to fight all at once until he's not sure which way Tony's trying to pull him anymore. He laughs anyway, when it's done, not even sure why, and Tony looks at him without moving his body.

'Just a head's up, Rhodey's going to punch you in the face and Pepper might give you the evil eye for a few weeks. I would have told you before but you were taking my clothes off before I had a chance and well--I needed this.' Then he sighs, hands resting on his own body and eyes drifting closed as he looks at the ceiling. 'Oh and Jarvis might lock you in the elevator or something. I tried to amend his programming so he couldn't be used to get revenge but I think he agrees with them. Dummy should be okay, though. Dummy will still be your friend.' Then he's getting up to go. 

'Did you want to tell me why you came here in the first place?' Steve asked.

Tony smirks at that, 'Maybe another time, Cap.' Then he's gone again, no need for a shirt, pants barely on and shoes tucked under his arm. 

Steve rolls his eyes at that and sighs, stares at his ceiling until he feels like he can sleep and then he gets up to wash up and resolves to worry about it another time.


End file.
